


Finders Keepers

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Gaby is no help either, because every time Napoleon even broaches the subject of how Illya has the uncanny ability to find him, she says such hurtful and awful things like, “Maybe you’re just easy to find.”</i>
</p>
<p>It's not bugs and it's not trackers, so how does Illya keep finding Napoleon, no matter where he goes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finders Keepers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Игра в прятки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5638372) by [dearling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearling/pseuds/dearling)



Napoleon isn’t sure when it goes from being an amusing mystery to genuinely annoying, but they’ve managed to slide from one territory into the other. He doesn’t know _how_ Illya is doing it, but somehow, he always manages to find Napoleon whenever he likes, even when Napoleon is at his craftiest. 

It’s not bugs, because Napoleon does a scan every day after he showers for the offensive little technologically stunted Russian things. Nothing ever comes up. There are no trackers either, no matter how hard he searches. Honestly, if he weren’t so annoyed, he’d almost be impressed.

Gaby is no help either, because every time Napoleon even broaches the subject of how Illya has the uncanny ability to find him, she says such hurtful and awful things like, “Maybe you’re just easy to find.”

Honestly, the cruelty is just too much.

It comes to a head when he’s out on the town in Paris at the Opera, enjoying some well-deserved downtime. While his government knows all about his little side projects, they clearly don’t seem to care because no one’s given him a lecture in some time. He’s in the middle of charming a perfectly lovely old widow (while she isn’t even aware of the diamond bracelet sliding off her wrist and into his pocket) when he sees a terrifying stone gargoyle standing at the lobby.

Though, on second glance, it turns out to be Illya.

Terrible lighting, the Opera has, really. He excuses himself smoothly, palming the bracelet expertly as he descends the steps to greet Illya, who’s standing there looking far more beatnik than the Opera usually allows in. 

“I hate your shoes,” Illya says.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Napoleon replies, trying not to take offense because his shoes perfectly match his tuxedo and they’re shined within an inch of perfection. They also have a lovely eyelet pattern to the laces that he finds charming. “Usually, they kick anyone out who clashes so awfully with the upholstery.”

“I dared them to try.” It’s almost a joke, but Illya cracks the corner of his lips upwards in the most imperceptible of ways that has Napoleon searching for evidence of humour. “Come. We have work to do.”

“Did Gaby tell you where I was?”

“She did not know,” Illya says, pressing that large hand of his on Napoleon’s shoulder as he begins to steer him out.

That’s the official moment Napoleon goes from vaguely amused to perplexed and more than the slightest bit annoyed that he’s so easy to track down. 

Things get worse, though, when they get to Vienna. Waverly has given them an assignment to get information off a low-level employee of a _very_ bad group, through whatever means necessary. Napoleon isn’t entirely convinced that Waverly had left it vague just to see what each of them would do. 

He assumes Illya is going to use force and that Gaby will go for charm and wiles. Napoleon knows he should fall somewhere in the middle, but he does tend to lean hard into charm by default. Besides that, he has some very firm information that Max (their mark) won’t be so susceptible to Gaby’s charms and will, instead, be far more open to him.

It takes some hunting, but eventually Napoleon finds a very seedy, very private, very secluded men’s club near Karlsplatz. Before he enters, he hurriedly strips off suit jacket, tie, and even his shirt until he’s left with nothing but a white tank-top and his perfectly fitting trousers. He jogs on the spot to give himself a bit of a sweaty appearance, ruffling his hair up before he approaches the door with a smile and a little money in the bouncer’s hand to make entrance a little easier. 

Really, he doesn’t know why he’d worried. They practically thank him for joining.

Oozing his way into the bar, Napoleon ingratiates himself with the patrons. He learns the bartender’s name and favorite drink, buys a round for all the gentlemen sitting at the bar, and finally connects his gaze with their dear Max, who is standing in the middle of the room and dancing to the beat of his own very personal drum.

On his feet, Napoleon lets the music carry him over, hips leading and shoulders soon to join as he plasters himself up against Max with barely more than a, “Mind if I join in?” He’s pleased to hear the happiness of the assent he gets, which tells him that he’s not losing his touch. It doesn’t take them very long to become acquainted, so to speak, and soon enough Max is leading Napoleon off to a private room, Max’s sweaty blond curls falling over mottled red cheeks. He keeps insistently licking his lips and well, Napoleon has never once been disappointed in earning information on his knees.

Even better on his back.

He’s ready to sink down, but Max stops him, placing Napoleon with his back to the door (an unfortunate position, but given their secluded location, is hardly the end of the world) before he slides down, unzipping Napoleon’s trousers and shoving down his briefs before getting those wet, pink lips around the head of Napoleon’s cock.

Tipping his head back and closing his eyes, Napoleon reaches forward to grab hold of a fistful of hair, letting out a blissful moan.

His other hand scrambles for something to hold, given purchase when he feels hot breath on his neck. Well, they never did say this room was private, after all. Napoleon shifts backwards into the hot, warm, definitively male body there, sliding in a rhythm forward into the waiting heat of Max’s mouth and back into the waiting and strong hands of their new friend.

Max glances up and something like fear flickers in his eyes, as if he’s not sure about being joined, but Napoleon is only too eager to encourage him onwards.

“Three’s never a crowd for me,” he says to Max. “Don’t stop.”

That hot breath at his neck grows closer, like lips daring to map out the path they’re longing to kiss. Napoleon shifts his gaze sideways and sees the way his stranger is licking his lips, almost nervous by the way he’s yet to lean forward and press them against Napoleon’s bare skin. He makes the decision for him by easing back the slightest bit, forcing the stranger’s lips onto his neck.

With the decision made for him and Max looking up so frequently with such nerves, that seems to thaw the man, who begins to kiss tentative touches across Napoleon’s shoulders, growing more confident with each passing sweep. The hands on his hips grow more insistent, more possessive, and soon, Napoleon is struggling to keep his mind on the game.

Between the hold on him and Max’s clearly clever tongue, Napoleon does the one thing he’d sworn to avoid – he comes, right into the mark’s mouth, and does so with such utter abandon that he wonders why he hasn’t been asked to be held down or tied up more often.

“That was faster than I expected,” Max confesses from where he’s easing back on his knees. “Was I fine?”

“You did a perfectly adequate job,” the not-so-stranger promises. “Isn’t that right, Cowboy?”

Napoleon freezes up the slightest amount, ice in his veins (though his cock stirs with renewed interest, which he’s sure Illya can see from where he’s looming) and the first thing he wonders isn’t _what on earth have we just done?_ or even _what if Gaby finds out?_

No, the only thing that Napoleon can think is, “…how on earth do you keep _finding_ me, Peril?” he demands, petulant and cross, despite his flagging cock and the man before him on his knees, bearing Napoleon’s come on his lips. Soon, Max seems to get the feeling that he’s not wanted, but that’s their mark, damn it, and Napoleon hasn’t gone to all this trouble to lose him.

He reaches out to hold onto Max’s chin lightly. “Wait at the bar for me?” he nearly purrs. “I’ll buy you a drink and we can head back to my place.”

That seems to renew some of Max’s interest, and he seems pleased that Napoleon has chosen him over the Greek God who’s seen fit to join them. He takes one last look at Napoleon, as if triple-checking whether he means it, before he heads out, closing the door with a heavy _click_ that leaves the two of them alone.

Napoleon bends to hike up his things, buckling them with great efficiency.

“You kiss like I might fall apart,” he criticizes. 

“You are too forceful and impatient,” Illya counters. “Typical American to rush through sex. I would’ve drawn it out, given you pleasure and then made you wait for more.”

Napoleon refuses to shiver visibly, though he is unaccountably aroused by the images in his head. Still, that’s a matter for later. Right now, he’s desperate to know how Illya had tracked him down. 

“Did you follow me?”

Illya shakes his head. “I knew you would find Max, so I waited.”

“You tracked me,” Napoleon realizes. “How? I search every day as soon as I come out of the shower,” he says, still puzzled beyond the telling of it. It’s made worse by the smug smirk on Illya’s face, because he knows something that Napoleon doesn’t and he knows how very badly that Napoleon _wants_ to know. He loathes the idea that he’s been outsmarted by the Red Peril, because plans and concocted notions are meant to be his wheelhouse.

He’s running through every possibility in his mind so thoroughly that he’s not even paying attention, so he misses Illya’s large hand reaching down to cup his groin, that great big hand kneading and working his balls.

Napoleon stands there, a touch stunned, but amenable to where this is going.

“Usually, men buy me dinner before fondling me like this,” he says, smooth and cool.

“The problem with you,” Illya says, “of the many problems with you, of which I do not have time to count, is that when you sweep for bugs and trackers, you always wear your underpants.” There, with a flick of his thumb, he both pays attention to the head of Napoleon’s cock for a too-brief moment before continuing onwards to nudge at something very, very small and sewed into the fabric of his y-fronts.

Well, he’ll be damned.

“Does this mean no dinner?” Napoleon asks, when Illya takes his hands off him.

“The mark is waiting for you,” Illya reminds him. “Maybe when you get back to the hotel, _if_ you get what we need, there will be something waiting for you.”

Napoleon grins as he watches Illya head for the door, his cheeks a bit pinker than usual and the way he’s avoiding eye contact means he’s clearly more affected than he really wants to let on. It’s the perfect opportunity. 

He waits just a little longer until Illya is halfway out the door to casually drape over the couch in the room, picking at lint from off his trousers. “I’ve heard excellent things about Russian sausage,” he says calmly, like it isn’t the awful innuendo that it is. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to defend your country’s honor.”

“Certainly better than American anything,” is all Illya says in reply. “Do your job. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

Napoleon reaches down to give his underpants a slight rub to get the feel of the small tracker there, shaking his head at Illya’s ingenuity in such matters. He has half a mind to ask if Gaby should be checking her unmentionables as well, but jut for tonight, Napoleon wants to feel a little _special_ and so he doesn’t say anything else on the matter.

Rocking to his feet, he runs a hand through his hair as he works himself towards the job at hand, knowing that if he does it well, he plans to reward himself very thoroughly.

Sighing happily, Napoleon leaves the private room with a touch more swagger than he walked in with, starting to like this cooperative intelligence game, if it continues to see fit to reward him so wonderfully.


End file.
